


Sliding Down the Hill

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan's phone rings and she makes a quick, split second decision. She keeps doing that. She makes choice after choice and change after change and, suddenly, she's crying on ESPN. That's probably the last thing she expects.Or: A not-quite a Little League World Series AU.





	Sliding Down the Hill

It all happens quickly.

One day Emma Swan is barely making ends meet on a tiny apartment in SoHo, constantly worried Henry will notice and, suddenly, two weeks later she’s on the phone with an overly-enthusiastic Mary Margaret screaming about _he just retired, Em, just packed up his desk and said he was going to go live by the ocean or something and, whatever, it doesn’t matter, there’s a job!_

A job.

In Storybrooke.

In Maine.

Probably with David.

Working with David in a tiny, little town in Maine with the one friend Emma has managed to keep and a cast of characters that belong on some sort of Hallmark Channel mini-series and, she’s fairly positive, only one stop sign. She’s not convinced Storybrooke has a traffic light.

It does, however, have a meticulously cared for _Welcome to Storybrooke_ sign at the town line and Emma bites her lip when she drives by it, the ancient, bright yellow bug she used one of her last paychecks to buy rumbling slightly when she and Henry barrel down Main Street.

Mary Margaret nearly crushes several of Emma’s internal organs as soon as she steps out of the car, but Emma doesn’t argue it and Henry almost looks passably amused – in a way that no ten-year-old should ever have to understand and maybe this was a good idea.

She starts work at the Sheriff's Department the next week – David claims she needs _time to settle in_ and Emma resists the urge to roll her eyes and rattle off a string of sarcastic responses because _it’s Storybrooke_ and there’s not much to settle when Mary Margaret has already gotten her a job and an apartment with a view of the ocean and a refrigerator filled with Tupperware containers.

It doesn’t matter.

The whole town seems to collectively adopt Emma and Henry as soon as they lay eyes on them, Granny sneaking a few extra pieces of bacon on their plates when they wander in late on Sunday mornings and the ice cream shop on Tidepool Court –  _Tidepool Court, honestly_ – absolutely does not give everyone four scoops on their medium cones.

Emma doesn’t mind.

And that’s kind of weird. A few minutes before that phone call with Mary Margaret, Emma would have hated all of it, being catered to and possibly placated just a bit, but Storybrooke is suddenly _home_ in a way that nothing has ever been and every single smile is like someone reaching out and telling her it’s ok. Everything is going to be ok.

It all happens quickly, settling into that life and a year goes by without much more trouble than Leroy nearly taking out the town sign with his truck on a particularly snowy January night, but then things change again and that happens quickly too.

He shows up on a Tuesday in May.

It’s unnaturally warm – not even Memorial Day and Henry complains for several straight minutes about spending the day in school when there is so much sun and beach potential, but Emma just presses her lips together and pushes on his shoulder, directing him back towards Granny’s door and the sidewalk and the very solid, very attractive man on the other side.

“Well, that’s quite a welcome to town,” he laughs and his voice is deep and amused and Emma’s stomach clenches at the sound of it.

Henry’s lemonade – with a questionable amount of cherries and probably way more sugar than he should have at seven-thirty in the morning – is sitting in a puddle at his feet. And all over the man’s shoes.

“Oh my God,” Emma groans, trying to move Henry out of the way and there’s not enough space for three people on the top step, particularly when they’re trying to dodge a lemonade river. “I’m so sorry, I’ll um….I have no idea how to fix this.”  
  
He laughs at her blunt admission and she finally manages to look up at him, all blue eyes and dark hair and a smirk on his face that is absolutely _unfair_ and Henry gapes at both of them. He’s far too perceptive for his own good.

“It’s alright, love,” the man says, shaking off his left sneaker and it’s clearly soaked through. Emma groans – although she’s not sure if that’s because of the lemonade disaster or because this stranger in a town where everyone knows everyone has already started throwing out nicknames with ease. “I hardly think anyone’s ever died from a lemonade attack.”

She scoffs and Henry laughs and there’s a line behind them, frustrated Storybrooke citizens all trying to get out Granny’s and none of them move.

Eventually, when she looks back on the moment and tries to remember when she _knew,_ Emma is loathe to admit that it might have actually been then – frozen on the top step with her kid pressed against her side and a smile in front of her and it all seemed to happen quickly.

“Even so,” she argues and the man’s eyebrows quirk slightly. “I feel like I should fix your shoes or buy you coffee or something.”

His eyebrows shift again and the smirk is bordering more on genuine than teasing. “I’m not sure you can fix my sneakers, love,” he says softly, pressing forward and there’s an audible _squish_ that makes Emma wince. “Although I might take the coffee.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but doesn’t actually argue it and she’s just about to agree to the coffee when someone shouts behind her to _C’mon Emma, move, we’ve got things to do_ and Henry reminds her that he has to go to school and there’s no time for coffee.

“Emma, huh?”

She nods slowly, blinking against the sunlight and the ridiculous force of his smile and she’s not quite sure how she gets the words out. “Swan,” she clarifies. “Emma Swan. And uh...this is my son, Henry.”  
  
He blinks once and her stomach sinks at the idea that that’s, somehow, a deal breaker, but then _she_ blinks and the look is gone and he’s smiling at both of them with a hand extended towards Henry. “Killian Jones,” he says. “I’m sorry about your lemonade.”

“That’s ok,” Henry grins and Emma’s not sure she’s taken a deep breath in the last five minutes.

Someone yells at them to move again and, that time, Emma can’t ignore them – something about responsibility and the badge tacked to her belt that requires her to take a step around Killian Jones and get her kid to school and they both mumble something about seeing each other later.

They don’t.

And that frustrates Emma more than she’s willing to admit until, two weeks later, Mary Margaret tugs her to the side of the kitchen and levels her with a very specific type of look. “What’s your problem?” she asks bluntly, a very un-Mary Margaret tone to her voice.

Emma stutters slightly, flinching when the edge of the counter presses into her spine and she’s run out of places to move. “Who’s that guy?” she asks softly, glancing at David to make sure he’s still preoccupied with the video game and Henry’s endless string of trash talk.

Mary Margaret narrows her eyes. “Guy,” she repeats slowly and Emma can practically hear the gears working in her head when she gasps loudly and smacks at her shoulder.

“Announce it a little more, M’s. It was just a question. No one shows up in Storybrooke unannounced like that and I was...curious. From a professional standpoint.”  
  
It’s the biggest lie Emma has ever told – and once she and Mary Margaret told Mr. Blanchard that they absolutely, positively loved the matching sweatshirts he’d bought for them on Christmas when they were twenty-two.

“From a professional standpoint you probably could have figured all of this out on your own,” Mary Margaret points out and Emma scowls at the look of triumph on her face. “Also,” she continues, stabbing her pointer finger into Emma’s arm. “You showed up in Storybrooke unannounced, so you are disproving your own theory.”  
  
“Are you going to answer my question or are you going to continue to lecture me?”  
  
“That is my job.”  
  
“Your job is energetic first-grade teacher of Storybrooke Elementary,” Emma argues. “Not my quasi-mother.”  
  
Mary Margaret almost looks disappointed, but she just pushes her finger even harder into Emma’s arm and rolls her shoulders. “I heard about the lemonade debacle. Didn’t he introduce himself? If he didn’t, don’t tell David, he’ll yell at him.”  
  
“David knows him?”  
  
“Yup,” Mary Margaret nods. “Went to college together and he knows Robin too from Boston or some other seafaring city and now he’s in Storybrooke to take over the harbor or whatever. David keeps calling him harbormaster, but Killian thinks that’s old fashioned.”  
  
“It’s definitely old fashioned,” Emma agrees, trying to process any of this information. “Ok, so...then what you’re telling me is that you and David are just the fairy godparents of all your lost and out-of-work friends, providing them with fresh, new starts in your charming little town when job opportunities crop up.”  
  
She means it as a joke, but Mary Margaret just shrugs and she almost looks pleased with the title. “Don’t fairy godparents require magic?” she asks and Emma snorts slightly, drawing the attention of her kid and David and she waves them off quickly. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret continues, “he’s super nice and…”  
There’s a knock on the door and Mary Margaret beams at Emma – those same gears almost _whirring_ to life in the space of their not-so-tiny kitchen and it’s all so obvious Emma is a little disappointed she hadn’t realized earlier.

“Oh, M’s you didn’t,” Emma sighs, but Mary Margaret brushes her off quickly and practically sprints towards the door, swinging it opening and letting Killian Jones, just as attractive as he was on Granny’s steps, into the house.

“Her heart was, at least, in the right place,” David mutters, appearing next to Emma suddenly. She lets him snake an arm around her shoulders and she doesn’t object when he places a kiss to her temple, twisting her lips instead and trying to swallow down every argument she could come up with.

It takes, approximately, three minutes for Killian Jones to work out of Mary Margaret’s clutches and find his way into the kitchen and Emma isn’t quite sure what any of her organs are doing as soon as he looks at her.

It’s like they’re expanding and contracting and maybe just exploding all at once and it should probably be painful, but it’s just kind of….nice. He grins at her, stuffing one of his hands into pocket and looping his thumb through his belt and she groans as soon as she blurts out “I promise not to spill lemonade on you this time.”

“That’s fair,” he says, mumbling the words into the empty space between them. “You know, I think we’re being set up here, Swan.”  
  
She nods, glancing at the living room and an expectant Mary Margaret who ducks her eyes as soon as she realizes Emma is looking at her. “Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s because Mary Margaret thinks she’s magical or something.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Fairy godparents,” Emma explains like that explains anything and she probably should have been more upfront. That’s not exactly her strong suit or, she learns rather quickly, Killian’s.

There is, after all, a reason the Nolans brought him to Storybrooke and Killian Jones might smile and do vaguely ridiculous things with his eyebrows, but he’s just as cautious as Emma and, maybe, just as broken.

Storybrooke, however, has a way of fixing broken things.

They’re not exactly friends – not at first. And Emma is reluctant to put a label to it, even when Mary Margaret widens her eyes and asks if she’s _talked to Killian recently_ and of course she has. It’s a small town with, exactly, two grown adults who are not already tied down to someone else.

That’s part of the problem.

Everyone just...expects it to happen. Emma wishes they wouldn’t. She’s not...that’s not for her.

Of course not.

She has Henry to worry about and a job to worry about and she doesn’t spend a questionable amount of time wondering – half certain it _could_ work if she’d let it and half terrified that it would just explode her in face, like everything else, and she can’t lose this.

She can’t lose this town.

Except no one in Storybrooke seems to have gotten that memo.

Killian smiles at her and she rolls her eyes at him and, eventually, they do get that coffee at Granny’s and it becomes a _thing_ and he shows up at the station with onion rings more than once during the winter when there’s not much to do at the docks and, well, maybe they are friends.

She tells him about Neal on a Saturday night – Henry at a friend’s house for the night and a pile of paperwork she should have finished two days ago sitting forgotten on the corner of her desk. She bits her lip when she finishes the whole, depressing story, how he left and didn’t come back and it’s probably ironic that a kid who spent time in jail is now law enforcement in a tiny town where they hardly need one sheriff, let alone two, and she’s talking just to fill the space, to chase away the silence and whatever he’s doing with his eyes when he keeps staring at her.

Maybe they’re not friends.

And then he reaches forward and wraps his fingers around hers and Emma’s lungs do that contracting and expanding thing again when he squeezes tightly. And then he talks. And talks.

He tells her about Liam and Milah and losing them both and then, maybe, losing himself and how he’d barely listened to David the first twenty-six times he’d tried to get him to come to Storybrooke.

“Yeah, I get that,” Emma mumbles, staring at their hands and the fingers he’s laced through hers and his thumb starts moving across the back of her palm. It makes her breath hitch.

“I know you do,” Killian whispers.

She’s not sure who moves first or if that sound she hears is him or her, but that happens quickly too and suddenly Emma’s lips are on his and his hand is in her hair and she feels herself sigh into him like she’s only just learning how to breathe.

Mary Margaret is going to be insufferable about this, Emma thinks at one point and then nearly scoffs at herself for thinking about _Mary Margaret_ when Killian Jones is kissing her and she refocuses all of her energy on that. At some point she shifts out of the chair she’s sitting in and she’s not quite sure how two hands can be seemingly everywhere at once, but she realizes she’s straddling his hips and his feet are planted flat on the station floor so they don’t actually tip over in the ancient roller chair.

All things considered, that would almost make sense.

They have to breathe eventually and Emma rests her forehead on Killian’s, trying to memorize the feel of him underneath her – the stubble on his jaw and the way his eyes seem to trace over every inch of her and how warm his hand is once it’s made its way under the hem of her shirt.

Emma rolls her hips slightly, trying to make sure she doesn’t actually slide off his lap and that’s a mistake because he makes a noise that is absolutely _unfair_ and decidedly _wrecked_ and she can’t think when he does that or when his lips crash back down on hers like he’s been waiting seven months, four days and, maybe, twelve hours for it.

Or however long it’s been since the lemonade incident.  
  
“That was….” he stutters and Emma smiles at the way he stumbles over the words.

“Good,” she finishes, pressing a kiss to lips again. He chases after her and her heart hammers in her chest.

Killian nods once and now that they’ve started this whole kissing thing, neither one of them can seem to stop. “Good,” he repeats and, well, that’s that.

It seems to just...happen from there and Emma sees David slide Mary Margaret a twenty-dollar bill on the other side of the booth at Granny’s the next morning, her jaw dropping slightly in frustration and she really shouldn’t be surprised. Killian’s whole body shakes when Henry walks into the diner to find an arm around his mom’s shoulder and he doesn’t even bother taking another step towards the booth, just stalks towards a less-than-pleased looking Ruby and holds his hand out expectantly.

She drops a ten dollar bill in Henry’s palm and he rolls his eyes, crooking his fingers as Ruby sighs dramatically. “A deal is a deal, Rubes,” Henry mutters. “I want my fifty cents.”  
  
“Ten fifty,” Emma cries, moving quickly enough that Killian’s arm nearly flies off her shoulder and Henry actually blushes.

He shrugs, but doesn’t drop his hand and Emma hears the _ding_ of the register as Ruby grumbles under her breath. “That’s just good bargaining, love,” Killian mutters, kissing the top of her hair and Mary Margaret makes a triumphant sound, nearly knocking over the maple syrup by her elbow.

“God, what?” Emma groans, somewhere close to sensory overload and Killian tightens his arms around her shoulders.

Henry hooks his foot around one of the few open chairs, flopping down at the end of the booth with a smile on his face, ten dollars and fifty cents richer. “She thought you’d give into the PDA early,” he explains. “Uncle David thought you’d...how did you put it?”  
  
David glares at Henry, fishing in his wallet for more cash while Mary Margaret beams at him. “Thanks a lot, kid,” he mumbles and Emma actually kicks him under the table. “Ow, Em, jeez, what the hell?”  
  
“You are a member of the law, David Nolan,” she seethes. “An upstanding citizen. You do not get to bet on my public displays of affection.”

He looks properly ashamed at that, ducking his eyes and taking a far-too-long sip of coffee and the whole diner seems to freeze, all of them waiting anxiously for Emma’s judgemental stare. She doesn’t stop staring at David.

“Can I still get my five bucks though?” Mary Margaret asks quietly, tugging David’s wallet out of his hand. “Because, you know, that’s a good amount of coffee in the morning here and, well, it’s cold.”

Emma sighs, but she can’t argue the look on Mary Margaret’s face and it does get freakishly cold in the mornings and maybe she’s earned her twenty-five bucks. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “We’re not paying for breakfast though because you guys are all questionable degenerates.”  
  
“That’s fair.”

He keeps bringing her onion rings and hot chocolate, only there’s a lot more kissing now and a lot more of David gagging in the background and Emma just grins and reminds him that _you bet on this_ and that usually gets him to shut up.

It doesn’t take long for her to realizes she’s ridiculously in love with him. She comes home one day and there’s still some snow on the ground – a trend, she’s learned in Maine, where winter seems to last into April and spring only lingers for a few days before the humidity descends and it’s an endless cycle Emma is happy to repeat.

She can hear them in the backyard and she gives herself a moment to marvel at the idea of _that,_ before trudging through the slightly too-high grass to find Henry laughing loudly, a glove on one hand and a ball in the other and Killian slumped over dramatically with a bat pressing into the dirt.

“You aren’t even trying,” Henry accuses and Emma can see Killian’s shoulders stiffen at that. He stands up slowly and she can only imagine the incredulous look on his face.  
  
“Excuse me, kid,” he says slowly, resting the bat on his shoulder and taking a step towards Henry. “I am trying as well as my hand-eye coordination allows me to. Maybe you’re just good.”  
  
Henry scrunches his nose and Emma sees herself in the expression, biting her lip so she doesn’t actually make a noise. “You don’t know that,” Henry grumbles, scuffing his shoe in the dirt as Killian rests his hand on his shoulder. “I don’t even know if I’ll make the team.”  
  
“You’re eleven. There are no cuts on teams like this. I can’t even believe there are enough kids in this town to field a team.”  
  
“Wow, your pep talks suck.”

Emma does laugh at that, eyes going wide when both Henry and Killian realize they have an audience and Killian nearly drops the bat still resting on his shoulder. “Swan,” he says brusquely and she can hear the nervous edge to his voice like he’s terrified he’s overstepped some line they haven’t even begun to discuss. “I didn’t know you were here, love.”  
  
She shrugs, stepping forward and resting her palms flat on his chest. “I didn’t want to interrupt practice. Where did you even find a bat?”  
  
“David had it.”  
  
“Ah,” she nods, glancing quickly at Henry who still looks uncertain about his future on Storybrooke’s one baseball team. “How come you don’t think you’re going to make the team, kid? Killian’s right, there shouldn’t be cuts.”  
  
Henry groans, rolling his head and tossing the ball absently. He doesn’t drop it. “You guys are both horrible at this and you have to say that kind of stuff you’re my…” He cuts himself off and Emma’s stomach lurches at the suggestion lingering in the air. None of them move for what feels like several centuries, Emma staring at a patch of grass in between her boots as she tries not to let herself wonder.

No.

It’s way too fast for any of that.

They haven’t even….even if she does. Irrevocably and completely and she really needed to stop thinking about Mary Margaret in moments like this.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Emma mutters, kicking her foot towards Henry as he picks the ball out of the air again. “God, have you always been so good at this?”  
  
Henry makes a face that has come to just mean _ehhhhh_ and Killian clicks his tongue softly, wrapping his arm around Emma’s waist. “Who’s the coach?” he asks suddenly and Henry’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“August,” he answers. “He’s been doing it forever, but I don’t think he even played baseball before and he’s loud in the dugout and he eats all the sunflower seeds.”  
  
Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat – she’ll never understand sunflower seeds. Henry glances at her, confusion in the furrow between his eyebrows, but she just grins and tugs the ball out of his glove, trying, and failing, to catch it with her left hand. He laughs loudly at her, any frustration over rosters forgotten for the moment, but Killian doesn’t move and Emma can _hear_ him thinking.

“What?” she asks, only vaguely distracted when she can see the tip of his tongue pressed against his lip.

He doesn’t look at her when he responds, staring intently at Henry instead. “What would you say to a regime change, kid?”

“I don’t understand,” Henry admits and Emma shrugs when he looks to her for confirmation.

“I’m just saying maybe it’s time someone with baseball experiences takes over the Storybrooke squad. Or whatever you guys call yourselves.”  
  
“Seagulls.”  
  
“What, really?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“God, maybe we can change that too.”  
  
Emma’s head is spinning – mind racing three steps ahead of herself and she’s standing still, but she feels like she’s already tripped over her own feet. “Killian,” she starts, but he doesn’t stop looking at Henry and it takes her eleven-year-old kid seven seconds to realize what’s going on.

“Oh,” he exclaims, dropping his glove and practically leaping in the air and if Emma wasn’t _sure_ before, she’s positive now, the smile on Killian’s face likely to power most of Storybrooke for the remainder of the year. “For real?”  
  
“I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t going to follow through.”  
  
“You know how to play baseball?”  
  
Killian nods, the smile on his face still there like it was carved and Emma’s not sure how she’s still standing. “I do,” he promises. “And you do too. So you should do that and you should play for a team that is not called the Seagulls. Deal?”  
  
“Deal,” Henry shouts and he’s already planning college scholarships and MLB Drafts and something about pitching at Fenway and Killian, finally, looks at Emma, a hopeful expression on his face that seems to settle into her very center and possibly melts the rest of the snow in her backyard.

“You ok, love?” he asks, when Henry dashes into the apartment to call friends and plan some kind of baseball mutiny.

Emma nods and it’s not entirely true, but she can’t seem to remember a single word and his hopeful look has morphed into something that’s just a bit more cautious and he’s still holding that goddamn bat. “Fine,” she breaths out eventually, but it sounds more like a sigh and Killian’s eyebrows furrow. “You didn’t….”  
  
She wishes she could finish a sentence, but there seems to be a distinct lack of oxygen outside and she’s not quite sure what to do with the expression on his face. “I wanted to,” Killian says easily, but he hasn’t moved his eyebrows yet and his eyes are still tracing across her face quickly like he’s nervous she’s going to explode. “I wasn’t, well, I should have asked, I guess. I just...he thinks he’s not going to make the team and he should the starting pitcher on the team and I can tell him…”  
  
“No,” Emma says sharply and she can actually hear Killian’s jaw snap shut.

“No?”  
  
“No,” she repeats, resting her hands on his chest again and she can almost feel his breathing even out underneath her. And she shouldn’t be surprised, not really, not when everything has been like this and for how _settled_ she seems to be, Emma has been living some kind of whirlwind for the last year and a half and so it almost makes sense that she nearly shouts the next few words out before even realizing she’s opened her mouth. “I love you,” she says, quickly and maybe just a bit aggressively and Killian blinks when he registers the words.

And for half a moment she’s terrified – certain it’s too soon and they haven’t even really used the word _dating_ , just sort of settled into this, but it’s still freezing and he was playing baseball with her kid and offering to coach baseball for her kid and Emma gasps when she realizes he’s kissing her.

“God, Emma,” he mumbles against her mouth and she thinks she can feel him smiling.

“Good?” she asks and he actually has the audacity to laugh at her, his hand heavy on her hip and she wishes he would just kiss her again so she would stop talking.

“Better. I have...I love you.”  
  
She realizes later on that he doesn’t say _I love you too_ – not once in the next few weeks when they still can’t quite stop mumbling it to each other, whispering it against lips and skin and cheeks when they’re not making out like teenagers. She tries not to think about it too much, but Emma is still _Emma_ and she’s nothing if not prone to overthinking and overanalysis and he never says the word _too_ , just says _I love you_ like he’s been waiting forever to promise it, like it’s just a statement and a sentence and not absolutely everything.

It makes her smile.

August doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to being relieved of his coaching duties, announcing that he _never really liked baseball anyway,_ and David becomes some kind of assistant without really applying for the job.

They crisscross New England that summer – the space just behind the front door of Emma’s apartment suddenly filled with equipment and more than one bat and she finds baseballs in every room and two sets of uniforms in her laundry.

Robin gets them tickets to Fenway in August and they have to take two cars to Boston, but Emma can’t stop smiling when she sees Henry’s eyes widen as soon as they approach the gate and he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and mumbling facts in historical order and it’s everything she’d never quite allowed herself to hope for.

The Red Sox lose – a blown save in the bottom of the ninth, but Henry is thrilled all the same and even Regina cracks a smile when he offers her the prize at the bottom of his Cracker Jack box, resting a hand on Roland’s back when he dozes against Robin’s shoulder.

Killian mumbles _I love you_ in her ear when they walk back to the parking lot at the other end of the block.

Henry gets even better the next summer – a pitch arsenal that makes Emma wonder just a bit again about _what ifs_ and _maybes_ and _dreams_ that seem not-quite so out of reach for a twelve year old on a baseball team that’s won its Little League regional.

“So what happens now?” Mary Margaret asks as soon as Killian makes it back to the dugout, uniform clinging to every inch of him after the entire team managed to dump Gatorade on him. Emma has a strong suspicion he let them.

Henry groans, his own hat lost to celebration on the first base line. David ruffles his hair and shoots his wife an exasperated look. They’d been over this no less than eight-hundred times. “Williamsport,” Henry shouts and the whole team _whoops_ on cue.

“That was impressive,” Emma mutters, leaning back against the fence in front of the dugout as Mary Margaret passes out post-game cookies that she must have made in the hotel because they’re a hundred miles away from Storybrooke.

Killian flashes her a grin that seems to shoot into her toes and Emma gasps when he tugs her against his side. “Oh, you’re all gross,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut when he leans down to kiss her and several drops of Gatorade land on her cheek. “Did you make them practice that cheer, Coach?”  
  
“Surprisingly enough, Swan, they did that on their own,” he grins. “Although I’ll take credit for it if you want.”  
  
“Greedy.”  
  
“Ah, well, you’ve already called me gross today, love. I think I can handle one more insult.”  
  
Henry and David make matching noises of disgust and Emma is half a second away from reminding them about _bets_ when more parents descend on the dugout and there are plans to make and forms to pass out and they’ve only got a few days before they have to get to Pennsylvania and an international event with TV cameras and ESPN and Emma is suddenly treading dangerously close to overwhelmed.

“Deep breaths, love,” Killian says softly and he kisses her hair again. She doesn’t worry about the Gatorade that time. “We’re going to win the whole thing.”  
  
It sounds like a guarantee and Emma resists the urge to make some sort of dated _Broadway Joe_ reference, but David does it anyway, incredibly pleased with himself when he shoots an over-exaggerated wink at Emma.

“Oh my God,” Mary Margaret sighs, but she’s smiling too and it’s all so...small town Emma can hardly believe any of it is real.

They’re totally going to win the whole thing.

The week goes back in a blur – trying to find suitcases and get Gatorade stains out of uniforms and Mary Margaret is on some kind of baking mission, determined to feed the entire team when they arrive at the farmhouse for one last _pre-game_ dinner before they pile on the bus the next morning and Emma’s only slightly nervous about that.

Killian knows. Of course he knows. She feels the bed dip when he climbs into it later that night, an arm around her waist and his nose burrowed against her neck and maybe, eventually, they should discuss that too – how easily he’s just settled into their lives and this apartment and Emma can't remember the last time she’s fallen asleep without him wrapped up around her.

“You going to make a sign, Swan?” he asks softly and that was the last thing she expected.

She twists around until she’s facing him, eyes bright even in the dim light of her – _their_ – room. “Is that a thing?”

“It’s definitely a thing. Have you never seen this before? It’s on TV every year.”  
  
“I am painfully aware of the TV coverage, thank you,” she groans and he chuckles lightly, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Honestly though, do people really make signs?”  
  
Killian hums in the back of his throat, not quite able to nod when his head is propped against a small mountain of pillows. “I can guarantee signs, love. And people. And an entire hill full of fans.”  
  
“I thought they just slid down it.”  
  
“That happens too. See, you know what’s going on.”  
  
“Why do you know so much about this? Is this just common knowledge that I missed out on?”  
  
He clicks his tongue and she can almost feel the nerves radiating off him, shifting the air around them and she can hear the ocean a few hundred yards away. “This is not some misplaced attempt at missed childhood glory,” Killian starts, tracing out a pattern on her arm and grinning when he notices the goosebumps there. “But when I was a kid, Liam coached our team because he was...well, there weren’t a ton of other options and we were ok, but we never even came close to this and…”

Emma can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows and she tries not to ask the, approximately, eight-thousand questions sitting on the tip of her tongue. “I want Henry to have all of that,” Killian finishes, voice barely more than a whisper.

She’s glad she’s laying down. She’s glad it’s dark. She hopes he doesn’t notice her crying.

He does.

Figures.

“Swan,” Killian says scandalized when he brushes a tear away from her cheek. “God, what…”  
  
“No, no,” she stammers, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and _God_ she wants so much it feels like the entire building will shake with the force of it. But she can’t say that and so she says the only thing that makes sense because it all seems to happen immediately. “I love you a questionable amount.”  
  
He gapes at her, air practically bursting out of his lungs in disbelief and maybe Emma can make a sign for her son and her boyfriend and maybe they can have it all. Even baseball. “Questionable, huh?” he laughs and Emma tries to shrug. “Ah, well, that’s good since I love you an absolutely ridiculous amount.”

She stops crying after that and they don’t really get much sleep and Mary Margaret asks about the bags under Killian’s eyes when he stuffs his equipment on the bus the next morning.

David cackles when he notices the blush on Emma’s cheeks.

It turns out she doesn’t need to make a sign. They provide them for her.  A small piece of cardboard that’s handed to her as soon as she and the entire Storybrooke contingent walk into Volunteer Stadium.

It reads _That’s my kid_ on the top and there’s a line for a name and number and Emma barely opens her mouth before Mary Margaret presents her with a bright blue Sharpie that perfectly matches the uniforms.

“You are almost too prepared, you know,” Emma accuses with a smile on her face and Mary Margaret just laughs, filling out her own sign.

“Shouldn’t you have two?” she asks and, of course, she’s stolen them an extra sign. “I figured I’d grab another one if one of us made a mistake, but I guess we’re all capable of writing letters on cardstock.”

“A true talent,” Regina drawls, resting her feet on the back of the chair in front of her and she brought a scorebook with her.

"Although you really should have two.”

“It says _my kid_ on it,” Emma reasons, but Mary Margaret seems unconcerned with any of that, already crossing out _kid_ and writing _boyfriend_ and it all feels a bit juvenile, but if there’s a place to be a kid, it’s Williamsport, Pennsylvania in August.

They win the first game. Henry hits his pitch count, but only gives up four hits  – Regina is quick to inform them, as if Emma isn’t absolutely keeping track already – and he connects on a double in the fourth and there’s barely enough time to hug him before he’s being pulled towards cameras and back to team-only lodging on the other side of town, but he looks _thrilled_ and Emma wants all of this for him too.

Killian kisses her, quick and meaningful with a squeeze to her hip and a nervous energy that’s almost catching and the cameras certainly pick up on that too.

Mary Margaret takes pictures of everything and her photo series might as well be called _Emma Swan watches baseball through her fingers_ because, by day four, Emma is a caricature of a parent, peering through her hands every time Henry comes up to bat and he hasn’t pitched since that first game and she’s trying not to be the pessimist she still is deep down, but they’re losing and they can’t mount a comeback.

They fall into the loser’s bracket and, suddenly, they’re fighting for their Little League lives and Killian’s shoulders are tense and Henry’s pitching in an elimination game.

“This is so much pressure,” Emma mumbles in between innings, Regina’s eyes focused on her book and Mary Margaret shoots her an understanding look. David barely said two words that morning and this was supposed to be _fun._

God, she’s a nervous wreck.

She can _feel_ the camera zeroing in on her.

Emma is not a person with many beliefs. Or she hasn’t been for a long time.

She believes in her kid and herself and the best friend next to her who keeps mumbling quiet encouragements every time Henry winds up. She believes in the town that she knows is holding viewing parties at Granny’s every game and, although she didn’t expect it, she believes in the coach that she’s certain is pacing the dugout and chewing on a ridiculous amount of bubble gum.

She believes in all of that and _because_ of that, she finds herself hoping and allowing herself to wonder and consider and what if they win? It takes one hour, forty-two minutes and six innings of no-hit baseball for her to realize that it feels pretty damn good.

“Still alive,” David shouts as they stumble onto the field and they probably aren’t supposed to be out there, but Emma can’t bring herself to care when she crashes into Killian’s chest and feels herself lifted off the ground and that probably made on TV too.

Henry’s lying just off the mound and Emma stumbles towards him, Killian never more than half an inch behind and they drop down next to him and stay there until a security guard kicks them off the field.

Emma’s hands finds Henry’s and Killian’s and she holds on with everything she has.

Mary Margaret sends her the picture later that night.

They win the United States title in two games on a Saturday afternoon and it is hot.

Emma can feel the sweat pooling at the base of her spine even underneath a vaguely ridiculous hat and paper fans that they handed out when they walked into the stadium. She keeps forgetting to use it, too focused on the game and every pitch feels like it has a direct line to her pulse and her lungs have all but collapsed by the bottom of the fifth inning.

“Comeback, comeback, comeback,” Mary Margaret chants like it’s the only word she’s ever learned. Emma can’t watch. She has to watch.

She’s a mess – an actual, sweat-covered mess. She grips her signs a little tighter and tries to _believe_ again when Henry steps into the batter’s box.

One out and a runner on first and Aurora and Philip’s kid is fast and this is Little Leauge so the possibility of a double play seems unlikely and Emma can’t remember when she became a person who knew what would make a good double play ball.

He’s got one strike to his name when she hears the telltale sound of bat hitting ball and she’s out of her seat before she can even consider how that will look on national TV, but Mary Margaret is screaming and Emma is jumping and the ball just keeps sailing through the sky.

“Oh my God,” she gasps as she loses track of the ball and it’s sailed over the fence, the commotion at the bottom of the hill the perfect indication that her kid just hit a go-ahead home run. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Emma can’t think of another word to say and Mary Margaret is laughing and clinging to her – any worry about the heat forgotten as soon as Henry dashes into the scrum of waiting teammates at home plate. She thinks she sees Regina try and swipe her knuckle underneath her eye, but decides against saying anything, waving her arms instead and trying to catch the attention of anyone in the dugout.

She doesn’t – not until the final out in the next inning and they’ve _won_ and then Emma's crying and she sprints onto the field without much regard to rules or security or anything except hugging her kid as tightly as she can.

He finds her quickly, the smile on his face so bright and happy and _everything_ and Emma bites her lips so she won’t just dissolve into a puddle in front of the backstop. Her knees buckle when Henry crashes into her, but she’s saved from the ground by a strong hand on her back and a familiar laugh in her ear and they’re a mess of limbs and smiles and _family_ and they get mentioned on the midnight SportsCenter.

She gets forty-six text messages about it.

The championship is the next day because, of course it is, and Emma has almost gotten used to things moving at the speed of light, but she is decidedly less used to sleeping on her own anymore and it takes Killian nearly ten minutes outside her and Mary Margaret’s hotel room door before he finally agrees he has to leave.

“This is stupid,” he grumbles and Emma blushes like she’s sixteen and following curfew.

“That’s what you get for volunteering to coach,” she points out. “You could have just been a plebe parent like me with my signs and sunburn, but you had to go and take over the whole thing. Captain saves sinking ship.”

“It was hardly sinking, Swan. Floundering at best.”

She scoffs, but her heart beats a little faster and she thinks she notices something that might almost be nerves on Killian’s face, but it disappears quickly and maybe she’s just trying to project. It’d be easier if they were on even ground.

And she used the word _parent_. Oh. Maybe she isn’t imagining it.

God.

“Have I ever said thank you?” she asks softly, tugging on the front of his t-shirt, _United States champion_ emblazoned on the front.

He stares at her, eyebrows pulled low and mouth just a few inches away from hers and maybe they could just kiss instead. He probably has curfew to make. “For what?” Killian asks and he sounds genuinely confused.

“This,” Emma shrugs. “Everything. Letting Mary Margaret push the set-up and offering to coach in the first place and I…” She licks her lips, throat suddenly dry and tongue far too big for her mouth and she’s entirely distracted by his eyes and that slight quirk of his mouth. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “It’s nice and you’re nice and I...I love you.”

“That was almost aggressive, Swan,” he laughs, resting his forehead and he’s absolutely smiling at her now. “But still not anything to thank me for. I wanted to. All of it. Every single thing. As much as I wanted you when you dropped lemonade on my sneaker.”

“Ugh,” Emma groans and it’s not very articulate, but it’s late and she’s half certain the sun drained most of her energy.

Killian laughs again, ducking his head until his lips find hers and it’s not one of their most intense kisses, but it’s far more emotional and far more meaningful, Emma’s back pressed up against the door and her fingers dancing on the edge of his shirt and he groans against her when she cants her hips up.

“If you’re trying to get me to leave, love,” he mumbles and Emma tugs a bit tighter on one belt loop, “that’s not going to help the cause.”

“I wasn’t aware we were a cause.”

"The most important one.”

“Smooth talker.”

"Honest.”

"Go,” she says, pushing lightly on his chest and she knows her face proves just how much she absolutely does not want him to leave. “You’ve got to win tomorrow.”

"The kids have to win, Swan. I’m just there to make sure they all get in the game.”

"You’re selling yourself short. You were on ESPN!”

"That was weird.”

“You blushed a lot. The tips of your ears went all red and you did that thing where you tug on the back of your hair.”

Killian twists his eyebrows and tries to smirk at her and it probably shouldn’t work as well as it does, but she’s wearing her own United States champions t-shirt and she really can’t figure out why he’s so nervous. “They were trying to ask me about strategy,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes and Emma can hear Mary Margaret’s feet moving behind the door. “There’s no strategy. I tell them to stand in front of the base and try and catch the ball.”

"Please,” Emma argues. “It’s so much more than that. Henry hit seventy on the radar gun, so Regina informed me, and that’s only because you spent an entire year practicing with him and Roland’s already talking about coming back here and what it’s going to be like when he plays and that’s...that’s all you. Ah, blushing again.”

She taps her finger on his chin and smiles as wide as she possibly can, trying to instill some kind of certainty in him and she’s not sure when it happened, but Emma Swan seems to have found home right there in a hallway in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

“And you said I was a smooth talker,” Killian mumbles, but his ears are still tinged red and he’s chewing lightly on his lip. “I’ve really got to go, love. They’re going to lock me out of the compound or whatever it is.”

"Won’t let you play ping pong tomorrow.”

"How’d you know about that?”

“I do, sometimes, talk to my kid,” she grins. “When he deems it acceptable to talk to me. And also there was a thing on ESPN and M’s told me.”

"Efficient.”

"Get out of here, Coach. I’ll see you tomorrow with a trophy and medals. Do they give you medals?”

"I’d assume there are medals, yes.”

"Then I’ll see you with medals.”  
  
He kisses her again before he leaves.

Williamsport, Pennsylvania is a lot like Storybrooke. It’s small and quiet and Emma assumes that most of the people who spend their actual lives in that tiny corner of the world know everything about the person who lives next door to them.

It’s small-town America in a big-time kind of way and there are kids _everywhere_ and everything kind of smells like sunscreen. Emma can’t sit still even once they find their seats and there’s a camera that is, apparently, just for them and their reactions and they have to sign a release because some ESPN intern who’s been assigned to _work the crowd_ wants to interview her in between the third and fourth inning.

They play anthems and Emma tries not to actually cry before the first pitch and Mary Margaret elbows her in the side, eyes wide and mouth hanging open when she notices who’s on the mound.

Henry. Pitching in the Little League World Series championship and no one told her.

“Oh God,” Emma breathes, drawing the attention of the small crowd around the Storybrooke contingent and Mary Margaret wrapps her arm tightly around her shoulders.

“Did you know?” she asks. Emma shakes her head. She can’t talk. She just holds her signs – the same ones from the very first day because of _they have to be the same ones, mom, there are rules_ and they’re a little dirty, smudged from her fingerprints and sunscreen and there are more than a few creases down the middle – and tries to focus on breathing in and out.

The game, despite what Emma may wish, starts while she’s in the midst of her complete and, somewhat, literal meltdown and Henry throws a strike.

Of course.

“Game on,” Regina mutters, scratching out a “K” on her book.

In the grand scheme of things, the last two years flew by – a mix of memories and excitement and _home,_ but the championship game of the Little League World Series seems to drag on endlessly.

Emma is convinced she’s spent most of her life sitting in row C, seat 17 of Lamade Stadium.

There’s suddenly a camera in her face and an intern with a microphone and she’s answering questions and trying to keep one eye on the field and Storybrooke is, apparently, some kind of _story_ that the country is _obsessed with_ and this tiny little town that Emma never wanted to visit has somehow become the center of the baseball-watching universe.

Or so the ESPN intern informs her.

She still can’t really talk. She hopes this video doesn’t end up all over the Internet –  _terrified mom ignores questions on national TV station_.

The interview goes longer than scheduled and Henry is up to bat and Emma leaps up when she hears bat hit ball. Again. “What is he hitting?” Emma asks, glancing towards Regina and her scorebook and she shrugs in response.

“I’m not doing math. Just keeping track of striekouts, but, I mean, it’s good.”

Good.

Emma’s phone buzzes non-stop for the remainder of the inning – a mix of reactions to her live ESPN interview and Henry’s hit and the very detailed handshake he and Killian came up with that was featured as the cutaway to commercial in the middle of the fifth.

They aren’t supposed to win.

Emma knows that. SportsCenter informed her that an American team hasn't won in nearly two decades that morning, but she’s discovered she’s a bit of a _believer_ now and none of this was supposed to happen, so winning the Little League World Series just makes sense.

She absolutely cries when they win.

And so does Mary Margaret and so does Regina and, probably, the entire population of Storybrooke, Maine some four-hundred and seventy miles away.

They run around the bases once more, waving to the crowd and forty-thousand fans who are all cheering and screaming and the kids actually pause by the third base line to sign autographs and Emma finds herself leaning against Mary Margaret out of necessity.

Mary Margaret takes, at least, seven thousand pictures.

Emma will probably think about the smile on her son’s face for the rest of her life and she closes her eyes when she feels arms wrap around her waist and a head resting against her shoulder and, for half a moment, that’s the only thing that matters and has ever mattered and she’s so happy, she can’t quite decide what to do next.

Probably keep crying.

Henry notices that, leaning back and staring at her with a scandalized expression. “Mom, are you crying?” he asks, shaking his head slightly to try and move the hair away from his forehead.

She brushes it away out of instinct and and he grumbles a bit at that. “Yeah,” Emma admits. “I am absolutely crying. You did so good, kid.”

He beams at her and hugs her a bit tighter and there are more cameras and they both get drenched in the post-game Gatorade bath.

It takes forever to get off the field and the entire team joins Killian and David at the post-game press conference – there’s a _post-game press conference_ – and it’s late by the time the Storybrooke contingent finally walks out of the stadium with smiles on their faces and jaw muscles just a bit sore and there’s still one thing left for them to do.

They have to slide down the hill.

“It’s tradition, Mom,” Henry cries, grabbing a piece of cardboard from the pile that Mary Margaret, somehow, organized. “And we’re the only team that hasn’t done it yet!”

The rest of the team agrees and they’re a blur of excitement and lights flashing on medals that none of them are willing to take off, laughter lingering in the air behind them.

“C’mon, Swan,” Killian grins, that same enthusiasm etched in his face as well. “The kid’s right. It’s absolutely tradition.”

“Peer pressure,” David shouts. He’s already three quarters of the way up the hill, Mary Margaret’s hand clutched tightly in his. Regina resolutely refuses to slide down anything, taking Mary Margaret’s phone instead and announcing she’ll document it.

"Let’s go, Em,” David continues, yelling when he gets a head of steam on his piece of cardboard. Mary Margaret has her eyes closed.

“If I break a bone, I’m blaming you,” she tells Killian and he hums in agreement.

She does not break any bones.

And Henry slides down the hill six times before more security guards show up and try to chase them off the grass.

“You’ve got to do it now,” Henry shouts, jumping off his torn-up piece of cardboard and racing towards Killian with an expectant look on his face.

Killian blanches, eyes going wide and he purses his lips, a hand falling on Henry’s shoulders to keep his feet on the ground. “Henry,” he cautions, but the kid just groans and Emma feels like she’s missing something.

“You said you’d do it if we won.”

“I said I’d consider if we won. Winning was not a precursor.” He glances at Emma and his whole body has gone tense, shoulders tight and spine straight and she tilts her head in confusion.

It’s still warm out – the quiet buzz of the lights above them matching up with the hum of the bugs in the grass and near-constant click of the shutter on Mary Margaret’s phone.

The security guard is shouting for them to leave again.

“Killian,” Henry whines and even David laughs at the drawn-out expression. “It’s perfect. C’mon. C’mon. We had a deal.”

Killian rolls his eyes, but he’s got a bit of color back in his cheeks and maybe just a bit of confidence in the way he shifts his stance. “We had an understanding at best,” he argues. “But you did pitch a complete game and, well…”

He takes a deep breath and turns back towards Emma with a look that makes her wonder about all sorts of things that are happening very quickly and she tries to swallow down the wad of emotion she can feel in the back of her throat.

“You’re going to have to change your sign,” Killian mumbles, taking a step towards her and it takes far too long for her to understand what he means.

She gasps when he does, eyes flitting towards a still-beaming Henry and a once-again crying Mary Margaret and Emma’s hands fly to her mouth. It’s the single most cliche thing she’s ever done and she cried on ESPN that afternoon.

That seems to boost Killian’s confidence.

He absolutely get a grass stain on his knee when he bends down and Emma’s eyes bug slightly when she realizes there was a ring in his pocket during the whole game.

“Swan,” he starts and Emma nods like she’s agreeing to her name. David snickers a few feet away. “I love you. And if you get to try and thank me for any of this, then I get to tell you that I am…”

He takes another deep breath, pressing his lips together tightly and Emma isn’t sure what to make of a visibly nervous Killian Jones. She crouches down in front of him and he makes a face – something about _the moment_ likely on the tip of his tongue, but she just smiles and rests her hand on his cheek and it kind of happens in a blur from there.

He tells her he loves her, at least, five more times.

“You made it all feel like home,” he says and they’re still kneeling on the hill, a security guard a few feet away and Mary Margaret may never actually stop crying. “And I want that, indefinitely and selfishly and if you’ll let me. So...thank God for lemonade.”

Emma lets out a shaky laugh, tugging on her lower lip and there _is_ a ring and more photos and Mary Margaret brought the blue Sharpie with her.

“Just in case,” she mumbles and Killian takes it with a smile on his face, crossing out boyfriend on the sign Emma had dropped a few feet away and scribbling in fiancé.

“Seems presumptuous to write it without asking though, huh?” he grins and Emma’s stomach does several cartwheels and maybe slides down the hill again. “Emma Swan, will you marry me?”

She kisses him.

And it’s not really an answer – a fact pointed out, loudly, by Henry several moments later and she’ll probably never get the grass stains out of her knees. “Mom,” he cries, dropping down next to them and Killian wraps an arm around his shoulders with that same, self-satisfied smile on his face.

“The kid’s right, Swan,” he agrees. “You didn’t actually answer.”

Emma rolls her eyes, reaching forward to ruffle Henry’s hair and it’s the easiest question she’s ever been asked. “Yes,” she says and even the security guard claps.

The drive home seems to take two seconds – Mary Margaret already going through color schemes and reception locations and _what about a honeymoon, have you thought about a honeymoon_ and Emma doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s barely thought about what to make for dinner that night.

And maybe telling Killian he should just move his stuff into the apartment. Most of his things are already there anyway.

She’s selfish too.

They make it back to Storybrooke before the team bus and there are banners everywhere and people on the sidewalks and Granny’s is completely decorated in blue and white and _NATIONAL CHAMPIONS_ plastered across the front.

Ruby grins knowingly when Emma and Mary Margaret climb out of the car, glancing down at Emma’s left hand and shouting “you owe me ten bucks, Archie” over her shoulder.

Emma can’t find it in herself to be frustrated.

There’s more cheering when the bus parks on Main Street and the team barrels out like they’re walking through the Canyon of Heroes, Henry’s smile just as wide as it was before. Killian finds Emma immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her up and there are almost certainly whistles and shouts as soon as his lips find hers.

“I love you,” he mumbles against her cheek and it seems impossible to cry again, but it’s been that kind of week and that kind of _life_ and she’s stumbled into _home_ quicker than she ever thought possible.

Mostly because she never thought it would be possible.

“I love you,” Emma says and Mary Margaret takes another picture when Henry presses in between them, the medal still around his neck.

They get married on a Saturday in the fall.

“It’s the only season we haven’t done something major, Swan,” Killian reasons and that’s as good an explanation as any.

They stand next to the ocean and David walks Emma down an aisle that isn’t quite an aisle and Henry stands next to Killian with something that almost looks like pride on his face.

It’s over before Emma realizes, words and promises and rings and it isn’t until they’re tucked underneath blankets and wrapped up in each other in the corner room at Granny’s later that night – a gift from Mary Margaret and David before they head to that honeymoon location Emma finally decided on – that it suddenly hits Emma, they’re married and she’s home and happy and loved.

She laughs out loud.

“Did I miss the joke?” Killian asks and she can feel the words pressed against her neck, the distracting way his fingers trail across her hip and back over her stomach and Emma has to bite her lip before she answers.

“No, no joke,” she mumbles. He quirks an eyebrow. His fingers don’t stop moving. “I was just...thinking.”

“You’re supposed to be doing the opposite of that, love.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but then her mind drifts back to thoughts and realizations and she flips towards Killian, pressing her palm flat on his bare chest. “We got married,” she says, a note of wonder in her voice. “Like actually married.”

"We did,” he agrees and she thinks she hears a bit of amusement in the words. “Is that what you were thinking about, Swan?”

“Yeah, I guess. I just...I never even imagined. I mean, M’s called me and told me about this job and I didn’t want to be here. And then she pulled you into the equation and I didn’t want you to be here…”

“Really selling it,” Killian interrupts and she scratches her nails lightly against him. “I’m glad she tried to force me into the equation.”

“Me too,” Emma promises. “That’s what I’m getting at. I’m just...I’m happy. It still surprises me, I guess.”

Killian laughs softly, brushing his nose against her cheek and pressing feather-like kisses against the slope of her shoulder.

“Me too,” he whispers and she swears she can feel it in every single inch of her. “That’s not going to change.”

“No?”

"No.”

It does. Sometimes. They fight and they argue about whether or not they should cancel the cable and if Henry should play fall ball when he decides baseball is the only sport he cares about and what kind of creamer they’re going to buy every week, but they always come back to happy – quickly and easily and it’s like coming home all over again.

The years go by and it all happens in a blink and they don’t go back to Williamsport, but they do go back to Fenway when Henry makes his quasi-hometown debut and pitches six innings of two-hit, shutout baseball and all of Storybrooke cheers.

And Emma might cry again, the camera finding her and Killian in the stands with his arm around her shoulder and a smile on his face and it isn’t just good – it’s better.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the Little League World Series is on. And I was like...what if I wrote about the Little League World Series. The Google Doc for this story is honestly called "WHY ARE YOU WRITING THIS?!?!" I have no explanation other than I wanted to see if I could write a whole story in a one-shot with sports emotions and this is...almost that. I clearly have no concept of word count in anything I do ever.
> 
> This is totally un'beta'ed so any mistakes are my own. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening


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